Sixty Seconds Too Late
by 88KeysOfSadism
Summary: Sequel to Smoke, Sweat, and Waterfalls and Please Forgive Me


**Part three in the Smoke, Sweat, and Waterfalls series.**

**They are, in order:**

**Smoke, Sweat, and Waterfalls**

**Please Forgive Me**

**And then this.**

**This is just... Wow...**

**WARNING: fairly intense feels, rather graphic images (I think)**

* * *

_That sick bastard._

Snow and sleet is kicked up behind him as he pushes his bike faster. Just a little bit faster, and a little bit faster, pushing a hundred miles an hour on the icy streets. His cape billows behind him, tugging at his neck as it's swept away by the wind. The falling snow shoots at him, stinging what little bit of his face is exposed.

Dick ignores the pain, gritting his teeth and going just a little bit faster.

He can't get there fast enough.

After hours of combing through the warehouse where his little brother had been, Dick had almost given up hope. There was nothing, absolutely _nothing_, except for the cape, the tape, and the splattered blood.

And then he'd just happened, by chance, to notice the loose brick in the wall. And only by removing it had he found the Joker's clue.

_Where do little robins go to die?_

It had all seemed very... Riddler. Joker was never one for clever jokes or riddles. Dick's first reaction, of course, was to over think the entire thing.

Does he mean something along the lines of a chopping block? Maybe a cat? Killer worm?

His desperation led him to such obscure, ridiculous theories that he ended up pulling some of his hair out. Then he'd realized:

Not robins. _Robins._

Capital R. Not the bird, the costume.

And only one Robin has ever gone anywhere to die.

Dick skids around a corner, watching the blinking dot on the control panel of his bike that shows the location of the warehouse. Not a warehouse. _The_ warehouse.

The warehouse that was, last he checked, nothing more than a bike of scrap metal and ashes.

The warehouse where Jason died.

_That sick, sick bastard_.

Dick nearly crashes the bike with the next slippery corner he spins around. It doesn't matter to him anymore. His only priority is getting to Damian before... Before...

Unbidden, a memory rises to the front of his mind. A memory of a dark night on a tall rooftop, the rain pouring down like tears...

_"Jason?" Dick stumbles back in surprise. The last thing he'd expected was the helmet of the legendary Red Hood to split open with a forceful blow. He'd anticipated the gaze of a stranger, not the familiar face before him now._

_The unforgettable Jason Todd sneers at the elder man, his once idol, and picks up a piece of his shattered protection. The sheets of rain run through his hair, matting his hair down. A white strip is plastered to his forehead, and he wipes it back. "So you do remember me, Golden Boy?" His voice is biting, harsh; insincere. "I'm touched."_

_Dick's feet unwillingly, unbidden carry him backwards still. "Jaybird?" He whispers, somewhere between amazed and horrified. _

_"I've outgrown that nickname, _Dickiebird_," he snaps, tossing the ruined piece of equipment aside, listening to it splash in a recently-formed puddle. Jason almost feels bad for the visible flinch he causes Dick._

_Almost._

_The currently masked man swallows thickly and looks up through the downpour. "Bruce... H -he said you died... He said the Joker... The Joker beat you to death with... With a crowbar..."_

_Jason laughs bitterly. "The crowbar wasn't what killed me, Dick. It was the bomb."_

The bomb. That's what's really bothering him. Bruises would heal, gashes could be stitched up, but you can't sew blasted body parts back together.

Dick gags and nearly throws up at the thought. Jason had been in one piece. But Damian...

Images race through his mind. The smoldering remains of the warehouse, jagged pieces of metal debris sticking up from the dirt. Fire raging around him as he races to the spot where he _knows_ the warehouse is supposed to be- he should know where it is after all those years of visiting the site of his little brother's death.

There's no body. A shard of the Robin cape, a chip of a mask. Nothing else.

And then he swears there's a moan from his left and he sprints towards it because maybe, possibly, his little brother is still alive, and there's still hope. Ash and dirt is sprayed up behind him as his boots slip on the ground.

A bare hand is sticking out of rubble, tiny fingers still and lifeless and _way too still._ With trembling hands, he shoves away the slab of concrete covering the child's body.

There's blood, way too much blood, and he can see through the mask that the boy's eyes are closed and his entire world is spinning, because he's trying to count his brother's fingers and _he can't because there isn't another-_

The bile rises up in the back of his throat and Dick nearly has to lean over the side of the bike and loses his last meal. The motorcycle swerves, and he struggles to get it under control. Eyes watering, he swallows the acid in his mouth, pushing his bike back up to its normal speed.

That's not going to happen.

He refuses to let that happen.

Sixty seconds before he gets there. And hopefully, he's not sixty seconds too late.

* * *

**That was bad... Too short, nasty cliffie, ugh. I'll post the (possibly) last part to this later, from Dami's point of view. If you guys want a sequel after that, I'm totally open.**


End file.
